I must begin this tale with a few caveats. This
story is 95% true but I’ve changed the names to implicate the
guilty. I reserve the remaining 5% as possibly untrue in case US security
forces torture me in Guantanamo
Bay to reveal the 5% that I lied about. This could change daily.

Some years ago I worked as a biologist on a large Air Force base in
Texas trying to restore large areas of plains to the original vegetation
because that’s the most healthy ecosystem. As it turned out I
couldn’t re-establish the original plants because the original
pollinators had been exterminated. This meant I needed someone who knew
bugs; a skilled entomologist.

I thought over my contacts, and being a dirty old man, I immediately
thought of 'Bobbie.' Bobbie is a PhD entomologist who works for one
of the foremost research institutions in the US. More importantly, she's
sex
on a stick. If I had to spend several days doing bug collections
in the Texas heat, the vision of Bobbie in her little cut-off shorts
and low-slung blouse, bending over to check a species, was enough for
me.

Bobbie’s ability to identify insects and their problems was phenomenal,
especially considering that arachnids were her specialty. She did her
PhD dissertation on spider dicks. Yes, she was the world’s foremost
authority on the spider penis. To you, this makes her a frikkin pervert,
but I did my MS thesis on parasites of the black-tailed jackrabbit and
my PhD topic would bring out the mob, so to me she was rather normal.
A commanding personality, in or out of those sexy cut-offs, when Bobbie
entered a room, she was in charge.

Her work was groundbreaking, as often the only way to isolate and identify
a spider species is by the penis. Look, just take my word for it, OK?
Some species are so small a microscope is required to see any characteristics
at all, and even on those that can be seen with the unaided eye, the
only distinguishing details are often in the dick.

It took several week-long trips to collect the insects, and the
cut-off shorts got so frayed I wanted to add bonus money. Midway
through the summer she hired a graduate student who was equally hot,
and I was in heaven. We spent our days trapping bugs and our evenings
identifying spiders.

That's when I started getting a bit concerned about Bobbie. Every spider
we caught had to have its dick examined. It bought a very strange gleam
to her eye and, I suspect, a moistness to those shorts of hers. I began
to realize that she was getting off on spider dicks. The twenty-two-year-old
grad student, Bobbette, who was ambivalent at first, started to glow.
When they started stroking the dicks and taking pictures I knew things
were getting weird.

Weekends we’d cook out, drink a few beers and talk about work.
The conversation would immediately turn to spider dicks. Even my wife,
who was a bit concerned at first, was getting into it. I spent hours
in the bathroom yelling at my dick
to grow large, lateral, feathery extensions and attain a size half
my height in length. My wife’s interest in me was waning.

The most alarming thing was the increasingly insane look in Bobbie’s
eyes as she described spider dicks in enthusiastic detail. The gleam
in her eye had become a permanent leer, demonic, but sexy if you’ve
had a few beers.

She would show us very large blow-ups of spider dicks that she'd taken
and arranged in a photo album. As we toiled in the field under the hot
Texas sun, she’d reminisce about the six years she spent in the
rain forests of South America studying spider dicks. The smile on her
face as she spoke was making it almost impossible for me to walk straight.
Bobbette was so moist I figured she was wanking
off almost permanently. Hell, I wanted some of that action!

The writer seeks the Pulitzer, the scientist the Nobel, the entomologist
seeks the new species. Personally, I seek that goddam elusive g-spot,
but that’s another story. One day it happened. Not the g-spot—I'm
still looking for that. No, Bobbie found a spider that defied description.
She pulled out her
laptop that was linked to every frikkin entomology source in the
world. Then she pulled out an incredibly powerful portable scope and
yes, went straight for the dick. She had discovered a new species!

Bobbie was one of the most respected scientists in her field. She was
on top of her game and the sexiest fox in shorts I'd ever seen. Suddenly,
she was on top of me and squealing like a hot
Cheerleader on her first date. But this time it was my dick she
was stroking! I don’t think she remembers it, but the species
was named after me; a great honour in scientific circles.

But let’s keep our cool about this. A few weeks later she was
working with Bobbette when I heard similar squeals. Fearing for their
safety, I whipped out my binoculars and well, she was on top of Bobbette.
Not that I minded her sticking her tongue between the grad student's
shaking legs, but she beat me to it. It turned out they'd found another
unique species while they were checking dicks and Bobbette was getting
a spider species named after her. Very rare for a grad student.

Our history making fortune was so infectious my wife joined us in the
field, but not on top of Bobbie or Bobbette—though I can't be
sure of that as I was miles away when the third species was discovered.
For the next couple of days my wife had a distant, dazed smile on her
face, and is probably the only physical education major to have a species
named after her.

My own collections continued after the ladies went home, and again
I found a spider I couldn't identify. I emailed the pictures to Bobbie,
who was also uncertain, so it was time for me to describe
the penis. Unimpressed with my uninspired efforts, she emailed back
one line: 'When it comes to dicks, you suck.'

At this point I should explain that all my email came through a classified
Air Force computer system. As the world’s most paranoid military
service, they have programmes, firewalls, scanners, decoders, and hundreds
of skilled, dedicated young men and women devoted to keeping the email
clean and wholesome. After receiving Bobbie's terse email, my computer
slowed to a snail’s pace. It got so slow websites were taking
minutes to load. Within two days, my home computer did the same. My
telephones
at home and work made funny clicking sounds. My postal mail was strangely
disheveled.

Bobbie hadn't a clue. About a week later she decided to email me three
photos for comparison. The subject of the email was 'Penis Pics.' She
attached three photos, and added: See which dick you like best.'

It had been years since I’d been handcuffed, but it's worse when
you’re older. I have no idea why my young wife likes it so much.
1700 miles to the east, Bobbie was not handcuffed but reported that
she was treated rather roughly as she was led away by several guys in
black suits wearing sunglasses. My detention facility was dark, so I
had no idea whether it was day or night. I agreed to a lie detector
test, mainly to see the light of day. It was night as I was being hooked
up to the machine and I saw my wife in the lobby waiting her turn. I
couldn't tell if she was handcuffed, or if they’d used the pink
fluffy ones she keeps in the bedside table. Our eyes met, we were one,
each hoping we wouldn't be asked how entomologists celebrate a new species.

Apparently Bobbie pulled some strings, or spider penis' and we were
eventually released. I received a written reprimand for encouraging
inappropriate
transmissions on a government computer, and was ordered to seek
alternate, male entomological consultants.

We didn't see Bobbie for over a year until I had to attend a scientific
conference where she lived. My wife accompanied me, and of course we
arranged to visit Bobbie at her home. It was a beautiful, two-hundred-year-old
piece of period architecture into which we were ushered by her husband,
a cultured humanities scholar, who left us in the living room while
he got drinks.

My wife was instantly struck by the high, white walls, and the huge
black and white graphics on display. She marvelled at the artistic symmetry;
then her face went strangely distant. Spider dicks, magnified 10,000
times. I don’t know if she was shaken or just getting moist; but
she needed to sit down. We settled on a large, beautiful couch to view
the artistry and quickly discovered that this position gave us the best
sight of all the biggest dicks. Her eyes strayed to the ceiling above
our heads, she gave a startled scream, and muttered: “Oh—my—god!”

I was too preoccupied by all the strange
stains on the fabric to see what she was looking at but by the expression
on her face I was pretty certain it wasn't an antique light fitting.

With such a wide range of outstanding material,
it is almost impossible to single out anything that, er—stands
out, but our adult version of Snow
White and the Seven Dwarves, as well as Jennifer Gardner's many
stories, are all firm favourites with our readers.